Dear Fred
by LindsayC173
Summary: At the end of his life, Fred looks back on everything that's happened and how different it might have been with George by his side.


**A/N: A little oneshot that's been buzzing around my head for a while. Enjoy!**

Dear Fred,

How are you doing up there? I hope you're playing pranks on the angels, and generally driving everyone mad. I've been keeping up our reputation down here, and I sincerely hope you're doing the same wherever you are. Being dead is no excuse whatsoever for letting the side down, and you'd better not forget it. I know it's not the same on your own, and I'll be up there soon to help you, but in the meantime I've been doing the best I can on my own, and I hope you are too.

I'm sure that little rant was unnecessary. You've never let me down before. No reason why you'd let a little thing like death change that.

Angelina and I celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary the other day. Fiftieth! Can you believe that? I know I certainly can't. It seems like only yesterday she was walking down the aisle towards me. She was beautiful, Freddie, absolutely beautiful. She's still beautiful today. You expect that sort of thing to change, especially considering she's had to put up with me for the last fifty years (you know, she said when the kids were born she was actually relieved because they couldn't possibly be as much of a nuisance than me – though that was before she discovered that little Fred was going to completely live up to his namesake) but she just gets more beautiful every day I spend married to her.

I broke two of my promises to you, Freddie, when I married Angelina. Do you remember when we were seven; we promised we'd never, ever get married? We solemnly swore to each other that we'd never fall in love and get married and let some silly girl steal us away from each other. We were just going to live in a little flat together and play pranks on people forever and ever. And then when we were twelve and we realised that actually that wasn't going to be possible, and that getting married meant we could have kids to pass on all our best tricks to, we promised we'd both get married at the same time. We were going to have a double wedding, so that neither of us was left on our own at any point, and then we were going to buy houses right next door to each other, so that our kids could be best friends and we could continue to drive everybody insane with the way we played tricks and finished each others sentences all the time. I wonder if our wives would have noticed if we'd swapped places one time, just to fool everyone. That was the one trick we agreed we absolutely had to try out. I think Angelina would have. She's very good at sussing me out, better than anyone else I know.

You broke that second promise too, Freddie. You were supposed to be here, living on the same street as me and celebrating with me when Angelina said yes to my proposal, and when little Fred and Roxanne were born, and when Fred set off his first dungbomb, and when that letter arrived from Hogwarts saying Roxy had blown up every single toilet in Hogwarts simultaneously. I don't think I've ever been so proud in my life.

You were supposed to stand beside me on the platform at the station while we waved our kids off for the first time and tell me not to worry so much, and that they were going to have the best time of their lives at Hogwarts. You'd have been right, of course. You very often _were_ right. I'd never have admitted it back then, and don't go getting all big-headed about it. I suppose there's no need for me to say that. Being proven right when I was wrong was the one thing you never got big-headed about. That was one of the best things about you. You weren't like Percy, who liked to gloat constantly when he was proven right about something, or like Bill and Charlie, who thought that just because they were so much older than us they were always right. You never laughed at me, or told me I was being stupid. Not when you could tell it was something that was important to me, anyway. Angelina's great, and she knows me better than anyone else alive, but she's not you. I'm not saying that in a soppy romantic way (I can just imagine you pulling a face at how sappy I'm being and pretending to throw up) but you were my best friend, my other half, and I still don't know how I've got through the last fifty-five years without you.

It's weird, isn't it, that I've now lived a lot longer without you than I ever did with you, and yet when I look back at my life it's the time _with_ you that I remember most clearly.

It's not just the time when you were actually there that I remember, though. Sometimes, when Angelina's out babysitting our grandkids, and there's nobody else around, I sit and imagine my other life, the life where you didn't die and I didn't have to go on without you, the life where we did all those things together. I can picture you there with me through all the major events of our lives, and see precisely how things would have been different. I can remember that version as clearly as I can remember the version that actually happened. It makes me happy to sit and "remember" that, and to visualise how happy we'd have been through all of it.

Well, maybe not all of it actually. There were times where we'd have been less happy, but I think even those times would have been easier with you than they were without you. Like when Dad died. That was horrible. Mum was absolutely inconsolable. I think she was even worse then than she was after you died, though it's hard to tell because I wasn't exactly seeing things very clearly myself after you died. She didn't really cry very much; she just got really, really quiet. I know that's hard to imagine: Mum quiet. Maybe it gives you some idea of how bad it was for her.

And then Mum died a few years later, and it was almost a relief. We all knew she'd gone to be with Dad, and that she was happier like that. It was still hard, though. The first Christmas after she died, the first Christmas ever when I didn't receive one of her hand-knitted jumpers, I just sat down and cried and cried. The kids were at Hogwarts for Christmas that year, thank goodness, but poor Angelina had to put up with me sobbing all day. Probably not the best Christmas she's ever had. I know I depend on Angelina too much sometimes, and that's difficult for her, because I expect her to fill in for you, and that's just not possible for anyone, no matter how amazing. She manages very well, though, considering she's not you.

I can see us right now, spending that Christmas together. We'd have let our wives go off somewhere together so that they didn't have to put up with us in that ridiculous state, and then we'd have dug out our most recent Christmas jumpers and spent the day calling each other Gred and Forge, and sobbing into each other's shoulders until we'd got it all out, and were feeling calmer again. And then of course we'd have sworn never to speak of it to anyone, not even our wives, and we'd have set up some ridiculous practical joke for them when they got back, just to prove that we were back to normal.

I suppose that's the one good thing that came of me not having you: I'm a lot closer to Angelina than I otherwise would have been. We always had that tendency to make others feel a little bit left out when they were around us, not deliberately, but just because we were so incredible close, and I think that might have made our marriages a little difficult sometimes. It's hard, though, when Angelina goes out with her friends, and I'm left on my own with only the memories for company. There's the kids and the grandkids, of course, and Ron and Ginny bring their kids and grandkids round, and there are more than enough people in the very large Weasley family to keep me occupied, but it's not the same as having my best friend.

There was a third promise we made each other, when we were nineteen. We were running that radio station with Lee, and were constantly having to move around to avoid being caught by the Death Eaters. Naturally we loved the thrill of it all, and we felt brave and invincible most of the time, but sometimes reality caught up with us and we realised just how close we always were to death, and what risks we were taking. And that was when we made that third promise: the promise to die together. We swore that it didn't matter whether we were killed by Death Eaters the very next day, or whether we lived to be eighty with hundreds of grandkids and died in our armchairs, so long as we did so together. That made me brave, Freddie. I knew I could face anything if I had you by my side. We agreed we'd never do anything stupid like trying to sacrifice our lives for one another, because we both knew that death was nothing compared to the horror of living without the other. We would either face death together and laugh in its face, as we did with any obstacle that faced us, or we would evade it together and laugh together afterwards about how close we'd come.

The idea that, when it came down to it, we might not have a choice in the matter, wasn't one that had ever occurred to us. We'd been through all sorts of difficulties before, but the one thing no one had ever succeeded in doing was split us up. I guess we weren't prepared for just how crafty death it could be. It outwitted us, anyway, and that wasn't exactly an easy thing to do.

We weren't really very good at keeping our promises, were we? I'm not going to blame you for that, though. I did at first. I ranted and raged and flew into the most ridiculous furies with you. I'd stand in front of your grave, sobbing and demanding to know why you'd done this to me. I accused you of abandoning me, of breaking every promise you'd ever made me and leaving me to face the world on my own.

I'm older now though, and wiser. I can just picture you laughing at that, but it's true. Age truly has given me wisdom (even if it didn't stop me swapping all the labels on the food round the other day – poor Angelina couldn't understand why her soup tasted so strange) and I know better now. I suppose really I knew better all along, but I wanted someone to blame and so I blamed you. The Fred I knew, my beloved brother, my always reliable best friend, would never have left me if he'd had any choice in the matter. You didn't choose to leave me, and I hope you can forgive me for ever believing that you had done so.

I'm dying, Freddie. I can feel it. Not from any sort of illness or anything; I'm simply too old and it's time for me to die. It'll be hard for Angelina, and for little Fred (though he's actually in his forties now – not so little anymore) and Roxy, but they'll help each other and they'll get through it. I've been blessed with a wonderful, long, rich life, and I've lived it for both of us, not just for me. A little while after you died I realised that I owed it to you to stop moping around and live twice as well as I otherwise would have, to make up for you not being able to do it yourself. I hope I've done you proud, Freddie.

I'm not scared. I think I'm probably the least scared I've been in a very long time. The biggest fear I ever had was living a life without you, and now that I've done so death seems nothing in comparison, because I know you'll be waiting for me on the other side with an enormous grin on your face, and one of those terrible jokes that never failed to make me laugh.

I love you, Fred. I know I never actually said it, because it was a silly, soppy thing to say, but we both knew it was true. All the most important things were like that for us: we never had to say them out loud because we _knew_.

It's not much longer now: a couple of days at the most. I'm not going to tell Angelina because I know she'll get all upset and make a big fuss. She'll be okay without me. She's very strong. I've always admired that about her.

I'll see you soon, Freddie.

Lots of love,

George


End file.
